


Inevitability and What Comes Before It

by FandomTrash



Category: Percy Jackson and the Olympians - Rick Riordan
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Reyna, Hurt Percy, I'm Sorry, It Gets Better, Lots of Crying, M/M, Major character death - Freeform, Percy Feels, Sad with a Happy Ending, Suicide, Underage Drinking, Underage Smoking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-14
Updated: 2017-10-14
Packaged: 2019-01-17 10:31:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,586
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12363777
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FandomTrash/pseuds/FandomTrash
Summary: We all die in the end.Depends on how you important you are for anybody to care.





	Inevitability and What Comes Before It

“Rip out my heart,” He tells me. Skin so pale and stretched over limbs so long and thin. Hair so thick and wild, curling around high cheekbones and pierced ears. Eyes so sunken and sad, sockets accentuated by the lifetime of sleepless nights. “Swallow my tongue,” He tells me. Voice so soft, feeble and waxing delirious. Mouth made of marble-white teeth that are sharper than anything and lips so chapped and rosy. “My entirety is yours,” He tells me. There's no way to correct him on that.

*

“You're a star,” I tell him. Because he is, and I have never known myself to lie to somebody so dear. He blinks at me, in one of his despondent states I never know how to tackle. So I talk. “Beautiful and bright,” I tell him. Because he is, and I've never known him to be anything but more than what I can offer him. Again, he only blinks, blank and unseeing as the first episode I was ever present for. I never know what to say, I remind myself. So I simply talk. “Yet too dangerous to get close to.”

Later, he asks me why I bare being near him. To that, I can only conjure smiles and smother him in kisses. “Maybe I like the risk,” I'll be a nutcase at heart, and he'll be my madman.

*

“We joke with death,” I muse. A familiar smirk curls the edges of his bruisingly sharp mouth, “We spend our time daydreaming.” I smile, “But the truth is, we can only exist.” He nods, pink lips to my ear, “And I'm honored to exist with you.” My heart leaps, rejoicing something that I'll never truly understand, my hand forever destined to find his hair and feel it curl around my fingers. I am forever destined to come back to him, whatever life I lead.

*

“I wonder if there's a world,” He murmurs against my collarbone, “A world outside of ours.” My hand runs patterns up and down his spine. With an encouraging hum from me, he continues, “One that is so close, one we could see if only we truly opened our eyes.” I don't tell him that I must've opened my eyes long ago, opened my eyes to him and found the only universe I'll ever need. It's an amusing concept; I used to be the one labeled _oblivious_ , but here he is, now mastering the title.

Instead, I only nod, knowing he'll shrink and fall to flustered self-depreciation if I voiced my thoughts. The vertebrae of his spine feels prominent under my fingers.

*

“Does it scare you?” I ask him. He raises an eyebrow, already building defenses. Topics like this always set him on edge – Fear. Emotions. – “The knowledge that you could face all of earth's evils,” I continue, soothing him with the increasingly tight grip I have on his middle, from where I hug him to me, “Yet none of it could ever compare to the terrors of your own mind?” He snorts, though I know he's indecisive of whether he's happy about that revelation or not. That he is invincible to all by himself.

*

“And still I find it hard to smile with blood in my mouth,” He starts, then stops. He manages a close-lipped smile, a quirk of those pretty lips. Though, it's unnecessary; I can see what he's feeling by the spark in his eyes, the look on his face. “And to feel with a rock in place of my heart,” He whispers, falling short as she meets my eyes. Lost, hopeless – lost in my eyes, hopelessly in love once more – and I am proud to believe that I am the only one who can ever evoke such things from him.

“But you're learning,” I finish, as this has been recited many a time, and I will be happy to guide the way until he has come to grips with the ways of love. For he has only dealt with the bitterness until now.

*

“My only wish,” I tell him, when the anniversary of what would've been my birthday comes around, “Is that you could've seen yourself through my eyes.” He's sad, as I say this, as I hold his hands and stand with him in the desolate fields of the unknown, the lost and the miserable. “Maybe then you you would have finally been happy with who you are.” Not _were_ , never _were_ , for he will always be who he is and the faults and the quirks will be engrained into his entirety for as many lives as he lives.

*

“You are the smoke from my cigarette turning my insides black,” He muses wryly, that ever so maddened grin on his face as he looks to me. A familiar feeling, as I indulge him in his silly, ironic twist of words, “You are the alcohol that poisons me with every sip.” Together, we mutter, a harmonic and rehearsed verse that will forever be in my heart and my mind, until the day my soul is forgotten among the rest, “You are the addiction I don't remember starting, but can't seem to quit.”

My palm burns against his, gods clearly displeased with us. Even after death, it appears we will never quite be left for naught by the ones that despised us most.

* * *

Turns out Nico killed himself recently. Nobody's really sure how to feel about it – hell, not even us. Not Hazel, who admitted she saw it coming, and hadn't known how to approach him about it. Not Reyna, who said that the new development is a tragedy and nothing more. Though, I know that cold, stoic Reyna is one of the only ones who feels _something_ , under all that romanic formality. Not Jason, his best friend, who knew him better than any of us. At least – that's what I thought.

Annabeth says that maybe it's for the best. Leo shrugs halfheartedly, and whilst I've known him to be a drama queen about anything he can, even he looks a little awkward and not all that interested. Frank shrugs, and okay, I suppose that makes a little sense, because Frank never knew Nico beyond _Hazel's Greek brother_ and not much else. But then Annabeth opens her mouth again with another shrug, says something that pisses me off: “I'm glad he's gone, too be honest.”

Everything's a blur. I turn on my heel, face red and eyes stinging; breathing's hard, and I don't know where I'm going. I seem to arrive there, though, the area dark and smelling of old books and petrichor – damp earth, dust, smoldering fires and rot. Cabin Thirteen. His bed is unmade, trusty sword absent from where it used to lean against his nightstand. The cabin is so cold, without him here to welcome me and make the place _alive_ for my benefit.

My knees give out as I reach his bed. They clack against the wooden floor, hands grappling to pull some of his comforter to my face. The recent years after the war had been good. I start sobbing into his bedding. The recent years after the war, we'd pathed over mistakes and we'd built bridges. He smiled at me more, let me hug him and let me ruffle his hair into that mess that I love so much. My best friend. Throughout everything, Nico was my _best friend_ , even if for most of it, he hated me.

But we had fixed things. Everything was starting to be okay again. I hear my sobs bouncing off the walls. My chest heaves, I can't breathe. Dammit. More, I need more of his damn comforter. Pressing it to my face, wadding up a bunch of it and hugging it to me. I'm a pathetic mess on the floor near his bed. If Hazel walks in right now, I don't think I'll bring myself to care too much. He's gone now. Nico's gone, he's killed himself, I don't know where, I don't know how, or how news broke out about it.

What did I do wrong? What the fuck did I do that pushed him away?

The door opens, something tells me somewhere in my head, but I just curl up more and lean against his bed. “Percy,” She says. Reyna. Choked up Reyna, struggling to keep her voice even as she kneels beside me. Reyna. Teary eyed Reyna who collapses beside me and grips my shoulder tightly as she starts sniffling. In a moment of togetherness, I manage to turn into her, the Roman I have come to befriend after previous disputes and broken hearts. I left behind a lot of those.

She smells like charcoal and almonds, an almost-Nico scent that makes me cry harder. I've never seen Reyna cry. I never thought I will. Fate is funny like that. Funny like Nico ended up saying goodbye to a world that wasn't good to him. We shake, and it's still mind-boggling that it's _Reyna_ here, no Hazel or Jason or...or Annabeth, at least to come and check on me. No, Reyna will do, the perfect in between of Nico and Bianca. _Oh gods they're both_ _ **gone**_ _, they're both gone now what do I do?_

Reyna sniffles wetly into my shoulder, and it's all I can do to hug her with Nico's comforter smothered between us.

*

Later, it's Hades that drops by. In the somewhat empty cabin, me being the only inhabitant. Reyna had cried herself dry, straightened up and gave me her best wishes before she left; composed, more distant than previously. No, just me and my continuous tears and mourning with my entirety. And Hades. The man that looks so much like the boy who's gone. High cheekbones, pale complexion and eyes dark like the bottom of a wine glass.

The god sits on Nico's bed, near my crumpled form on the floor. He watches, silent, as I curl up more and grapple at whatever scent is left of my best friend. Eventually, Hades lets out a somewhat sympathetic sound, which is terrifying all on its own to know he could produce such emotions. “It's ironic to see that it's the person that caused my boy so much turmoil to be the only one weeping for his absence,” My heart breaks into millions. I don't dare look at the carbon copy _liar impostor imitator._

I feel the god stand; my response is to hug the comforter like a lifeline. “Closure,” He offers, like a deal, like it's a bargain in return for the death of Nico di Angelo, “Closure usually helps the mourning process. Would you like to see where he...departed?” Without an answer, his cool, firm hand is gripping my shoulder and the world distorts into messily angrily cold and fear and loneliness and the only heartbeat being my own and dear god I've never liked shadow-travel and now wont change that.

Shakily, I stand, wind in my hair as light bursts floating spots in my vision. The sun is still setting as I look around, painting the skies reds and pinks. I don't know why I notice that. Nico's favorite color was green, not red, not orange, not yellow. Those are Hazel's colors, and Hazel can't even bring herself to be moved by the loss. Then I realize I'm standing on iron-grate floors and there's a handrail in front of me. An escape ladder hanging on the side, stars up to the floor above on my right.

There'll be a window behind me, if I turn. Now, the room will be repainted blank white and empty, but it used to be blue with a bed and a crappy closet with a door that squeaked. There'd be nails in the walls from where pictures used to hang, of the ocean and of me and my mom. _Oh gods._ Weakly, I croak out, “This is my old apartment.” Only to find that Hades has left. I fall to my knees, comforter still clutched in my trembling hands as I sob some more.

I notice cigarettes – all smoked to stubs – resting on the handrail. A packet of Marlboro rests on the floor, and there are his _boots._ His boots are here. He took of his shoes before he – he jumped. (“In Japan, it's a thing that they take off their shoes before they jump, y'know.” He smiles, snorting a little. He shoves his thumbs into his pockets as we pass the graveyard, “It's – it's sorta weird, but I...kinda get it?”) Paper flutters in the breeze. I look up from his comforter – _his goddamn comforter._

Paper. Paper shoved under one of his boots, in blurry smudged blue ink with my name very obviously at the top. My mouth goes dry. Trembling, shaking, wide-eyed and _not in the right state of goddamn mind_ – I take the paper. Carefully fold it up, crease the edges and safely tuck it into my pocket. Then, I resume to cry some more, see how many tears it'll take 'til the only thing his comforter smells of is salt, sadness, and the need for him to be here when he's not.

*

One week. One week since he's gone, and I haven't set foot outside his cabin since I returned from my old apartment building. Nobody asked where I had gone, nobody asked why I had been missing until two days later. I hadn't left that damned fire escape balcony once. Not for a whole fourty-eight hours, and it's becoming clear that nobody truly gives a damn what happens to you in the end. I haven't eaten, haven't slept – god, I'm so thirsty, and I can't cry anymore.

Alcohol. I found alcohol under his bed, among the mountainous boxes of cigarettes. Only two bottles – aging wine from Italy that had ribbons tied around their slender necks; presents, maybe for himself, maybe for somebody he was waiting to meet and crack open with. I remembered thinking about our past conversations. How he was thinking that once he came of age, he'd share a bottle of wine with me and enjoy when my face would scrunch up at the taste. I wish I'd opened one with him sooner.

So I did. An Ode To di Angelo.

Pried the cork from one of the bottles – a prosecco of sorts, I don't remember too clearly – and remember feeling bliss until the last drop. Between the first and the second – red wine, this time – he had been there. Sat beside me, watched my nurse both of them in a span of an hour and a half. Though...he was blurry, a mess of sharp edges and soft eyes. Softer than I remembered them being, and a mouth set in the line of a frown. Head cocked, like always, he'd muttered something to me.

“Let go, Percy.” And it'd...it'd made me laugh. “Let go?” I cried, incredulous, waxing whimsical as the time went by, bottle clutched desperately to me chest. “How do I let go, when I only just got you?” Nico didn't seem to have an answer for that. Instead, he tried to rest a hand on my shoulder: his hand fazed through me, chills down my spine. Drunk as I was, I sobered almost immediately at that. That was the last time I cried until now.

And now, I'm still here in his cabin. Maybe still drunk, probably not. Days have gone by. In all honesty, I'm not exactly sure that's it's been a week. But then again, it's not like anybody's come in to check. We didn't get to light a pire for him. The mortals got to him first, cleared him off the path and, according to what Hades has bothered to drop in and tell me (for some reason,) incinerated him after not being able to recover his files.

Nico di Angelo never existed, according to them. A John Doe with the rest of them. Or, Johnny Doe I guess, since he never did quite live past sixteen. They said demigods lives go fast, but gods, I never thought that fast. My throat wells up. His comforter has become my safety blanket, and as I have suspected, it have finally drowned out the remnants of his scent with both tears and alcohol. I haven't seen Annabeth since the day Reyna came and cried with me.

I wonder if she cares.

*

It's no wonder Gabe always drank.

The world becomes fuzzy, your lack of confidence suddenly bursts and you feel like you can fly. Fuck Zeus, I'll grow wings and soar through the skies. One month. One month since he's gone, three weeks since I left Cabin Thirteen. His note is still in my pocket. I haven't opened it to read. I don't want to, don't dare. The day I read it will be the day I die. Because I don't think I'm man enough to bare whatever is between those blue lines of wobbly, tear-stained text.

The day I read his note will be the day I die.

There's this little bar in New York – I've been spending my days there. Work there, actually, which means free beverages. I drink myself into the morning hours after the bar's closed. Some of the regulars – purple faced and voices slurring so much that I don't think they notice when the lager’s too bitter. Wiping countertops is easy, the bar's a quiet place so the headaches and hangovers are never too bad. I've got myself a salary going – mortals think I'm twenty one.

It's ironic to think that it takes mist to fool mortals but Nico only needed a smile to fool demigods.

Ted – that's his name, Ted, the dude with the near-purple face with how many he's already drank this evening. He grins at me toothily, “Hey Percy.” I nod at him. I'd tell him to slow down, that maybe he's had enough, but that'd be hypocritical. So I indulge him, “Yeah Ted?” He runs a hand through his hair, and in all honesty he reminds me a little of Luke; blond hair, blue eyes, that particular blue that holds you there. But Ted's eyes are unfocused, and it takes him half an hour to rub two braincells together.

“You ever had a person you want, but can't have?” I only shrug, not a yes, but not a no. He takes it as a yes, and spills his heart onto the countertop. I don't listen to half of it. It makes me think of Nico – he came out to me after the war, saying it was okay because he was over me. Thing is; he told me a couple weeks later that he lied, and I told him it was okay. That's when I started to work on making friends with him, to maybe ease things up on him. If he got to know me, he'd be over me quickly.

Didn't turn out that way. I'd been ready to tell him that I sortakindamaybe felt the same way. But he's gone. I can only admit my feelings to whatever bitter bottle is on the shelf now. I'm not a son of Hades. I don't know how to summon ghosts and communicate with them. I idle until elven rolls around, which is the time that I start shooing everybody out for closing time. All my coworkers say goodbye; I've always been the one to close up shop. I'm the most responsible. My boss doesn't know shit.

I wave goodbye to the other person on shift tonight, wait around a little before leaving the keys on the counter. Then, I slump on one of the barstools, pour myself a pint of whatever yellow-orange grossness is closest and gulp it down. Alcohol. My only friend, now. Nobody's tried to find me, tried to contact me. There's an irony to that, I know it. It'd be wrong if I'm the one to point it out, though. That's Annabeth's job. Reyna's job, Leo's job. Nico's job.

A smile pulls my mouth as I knock back the rest of the bottle. The glass falls to the floor, smashes, but I don't care too much.

*

Two months. I've forgotten what sober feels like. I'm drunk all the time, during work, but I've mastered looking sober. Looking sane. I've been driven mad by the silence. By the smart quips that should fill the space, by the soft chuckles and derisive sounds that emanate from one boy in particular. His birthday is soon, and I don't know what to get him. What I would've gotten him, I mean. That's right; he's dead. He's not here anymore. And that damned note burns a hold in my pocket, but like I said:

The day I read it will be the day I die.

My mom found me. She found me a few days ago, looked me in the eyes on my break and saw my red-rimmed eyes and week-old clothes. Then she dropped her gaze and left the shop. The times I've seen her around New York, she doesn't look me in the eyes anymore. I must be a monster to her, but it's not like I'm sober enough to care anymore. Drunk, drink, drinking all the time. That's the life for me, for the bliss and the carefree invincibility. Maybe I miss that, a little bit.

Maybe if I had still been cursed by Achilles, I could've been there in time.

But I wasn't.

Oh well. He's dead now.

(I'll be dead, soon.)

*

Three months? Almost three months. His birthday is today; he'd be seventeen. Big ol' one-seven. I toast, to nothing. Maybe to the stars. They're out tonight. In my hand, I have a prosecco. The same brand I had the first time, the one I found under his bed. An anniversary, why not celebrate? I'll never know why today of all days I'm crying, but I am, and the lake is a lovely place at night. Camp Half-Blood's always had a nice view.

Nobody knows I'm here. I'll keep it that way, cus I'm not gonna be here for long. Three sips in, and I'm crying. I don't know if I've said that already, but I'm crying. Dreadfully, ugly, loudly. I have his comforter with me. I'm not sure where it went in the months between, but it turned up on the doorstep of the shelter I was staying in, and I...i took it as a sign. A sign for what, I'll never know. But it lead me here. Here I am, toasting the bitch that took his sister, toasting the fucker who wanted to say hello.

Damned. I'm fucking damned. A toast to that, a large gulp. Nico would frown at me right now, tell me that I'm not savoring the flavor. A toast to that, a large gulp. So many things to toast to, so many large gulps after. I hear a soft gasp; but I don't turn. I know that voice, I know the tempo of those steps. “Percy?” Not Reyna. No, not like all those months ago at the beginning of it all. Not Reyna. Annabeth. My. My...girlfriend? My girlfriend. My kindanotreally long distance girlfriend I haven't seen for months.

She rests a hand on my shoulder, but I shrug her off. “F'off,” I slur, standing on unsteady feet. She looks distraught, scared, maybe. I just scowl, “Fuck'ff,” I try. She just shakes her head, hands outstretched, “Percy, let's get you to the Big Three cabin -” I shake my head, shove her away. I down what's left of the bottle, watching her nose scrunch. I drop the bottle at our feet, “G'way, Annie.” The blonde stifles what could be sob, but I feel no sympathy.

Why wasn't she sobbing when he died?

Bitch.

“I'm going to go get Chiron, okay? You stay right here.” She dashes off. I smirk at her retreat, kicking the bottle at my feet. The note. The note in my pocket. Better time than any. The day I read it will be the day I die. Moonlight is my only source of illumination, but the blue ink is still bright on the crumpled, creased paper.

_Percy, I love you. You know that. Not much else needs to be said, I guess. Goodbye_.

I laugh loudly, head thrown back. This is what I had been avoiding? This is what had me indecisive and apprehensive for months? Fuck this. I shake my head, still laughing as I fist the paper tightly in my hand, crinkling up once more in the deafening silence. I wipe my eyes, cackling, harshly. Until I realize I'm crying. I haven't cried for a while. Haven't been hydrated enough to do so. But here I am; I'm crying. On his birthday, too. Nobody likes tears on their birthday. It's a moodkiller.

I hear voices. I see familiar faces – Jason, Piper, Leo, others. Annabeth. Chiron. They make their way to me, to my dizzy form that can't stand on its own two feet. My name echoes loudly, from all of them, hands out to try and stable me. Suddenly water is lapping at my feet, crashing beside me as it forces them back, “Fuck off!” I tell them all. The only face I see that isn't soaked and angry, sad, confused is Reyna. Reyna, who nods at me from the trees. It looks like she hasn't slept in a while.

Stuffing his fucking note in my pocket, I scream, “Later Reyna! Make it to Elysium for me, cus like Hades am I gettin' there!” Or something along those lines. The next thing I know, I'm trudging through the waves, the sudden crashing and swirling mess of water. I'm getting chilled to the bone, drenched, and man that's a first in a long time. It's...welcoming, I guess. I trip on something, and my last view is watching Annabeth cry out like it's the end of the world with the rest of them.

So, I guess you gotta be important for anybody to miss you.

_But Nico is so important. **I miss him so much**._

Reyna holds a hand up to me, waving, serene and it's a good way to go, I think. With her respect and love – whatever is left of it, platonic or not, I'll never know. But she's there, among the trees, among the distress with a smile. She's one of the only people I'll be ever to truly respect, even if I couldn't give her what she wanted back then. I'm glad we've built bridges. Like me and Nico were building bridges. The idea makes me let out a breath.

(Turns out a son of Poseidon really can drown if he tries hard enough.)

*

I remember finding his face in the fog. Through all the gray faces and the melancholy fields. He was there, standing, a black figure that stood out darkly among the rest. I remember racing to him, suddenly finding life that had been gone for months prior. Yelling his name, feeling tears stream down my face, my first smile pulling my face like muscle memory. He turned, surprised, face ashen like the rest of them, like me, but I don't remember caring too much.

After that, we spent the rest of our deaths in Asphodel, heroes, with the title taken from us.

“Heroes don't commit suicide,” He shrugged, but I remember clearly how convicted I felt as I pulled him close, hand in his hair, “Doesn't matter. You've always been my hero.” To that, he'd kissed me, kissed me, kissed me, and I've never felt more alive.

**Author's Note:**

> Fuck. I'm unproductive, have this offering.


End file.
